


should auld acquaintance be forgot (will you kiss me in the morning light?)

by VenusMonstrosa



Series: he is half of my soul, as the poets say [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky is Bucky, Fluff but like sarcastic fluff, Kinda, M/M, Meet-Cute, New Year's Eve, Oral Sex, Sam has a shitty neighbour and a worse best friend, Steve is a homebody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 22:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17292581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusMonstrosa/pseuds/VenusMonstrosa
Summary: The man quirks an eyebrow and delicately removes the cigarette from his mouth, turning to blow the smoke downwind. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me just finish up and get out of your way.”“You can-- I mean-- Well, I don’t live here,” Steve states rather obviously. “You can stay. It’s your roof, I guess.”“How generous,” he says, amused. After a beat, he takes two steps closer and holds his hand out to shake. “Bucky.”“Steve.”Bucky’s hand is calloused, but warm and sturdy. The rest of him appears to be the same way. The supple leather of his jacket looks almost as soft as his hair, and Steve wrestles the physical urge to find out.





	should auld acquaintance be forgot (will you kiss me in the morning light?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrishArgh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrishArgh/gifts).



> Endless thanks to Gracelesso for the speedy beta work! Title from my favourite NYE song, [This Love Won't Break Your Heart - Annalise Emerick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4gw7BtiLOwk).

****Big parties aren’t really Steve’s _thing._

In his prime socializing years of high school and college, he was either too sick or too broke or flat out not invited to anything. Eventually, his health settled down enough for him to hit a late growth spurt and he landed a steady job with an alright paycheck. He made friends, and they do invite him out, but he’d already been a homebody his whole life and was perfectly content to remain so. Being at home is great. There’s food, TV, wifi, he doesn’t have to wear pants, he doesn’t have to remember a bunch of new names, and he never has to worry whether the toilet is going to be covered in vomit. And if it is, at least it’s his own.

But Sam moved in November and held off on having a housewarming until New Year’s Eve. Steve wouldn’t put it past him to have planned ahead, doubling up on excuses to make Steve come out. He spent Christmas with his mom, missed Natasha’s Anti-Thanksgiving-Friendship-Potluck, skipped out on the Halloween bar crawl, and showed up late to his own birthday barbecue. There was literally no getting out of this one.

“Fine,” Steve had conceded. “But expect a seriously mediocre housewarming gift.”

And that’s how he finds himself in the elevator of Sam’s new condo, an expensive bottle of champagne in one hand and a cheap, fake potted succulent in the other. He spends the duration of the long ride up frowning at his reflection in the mirrored walls. Is he dressed too casually? Not casual enough? Did he remember to brush his teeth after having extra-garlicky hummus for lunch? Did he really miss a spot shaving? _Whatever_ , he thinks. There’s nothing to be done about it now.

He can hear the party from down the hall, the sounds of celebration growing louder as he approaches Sam’s door. Steve’s watch tells him it’s just past nine: an hour after the time Sam told him to be there, but an hour earlier than Steve usually arrives. Not bad, considering he only peeled himself off his couch forty minutes ago.

He had been so comfortable there, too.

Maybe if he just knocks quietly, no one will answer.

Naturally, he doesn’t have that kind of luck, and the door swings open. Natasha blows a party horn in his face.

“Steve’s here,” she calls out over her shoulder.

His name echoes back to him in a slurred, drunken chorus.

“Hey! You’re early!” Sam yells over the din.

Natasha snorts, moving aside to let Steve in. “Don’t you look nice,” she says, reaching for the champagne before he can even shrug his coat off.

Steve gives it up without a fight, sparing a moment to appreciate her dress. “You look better.”

“I know,” she smiles, disappearing with the bottle just before Sam finds him. They take a slightly tipsy tour of the three spacious bedrooms and a balcony, a small but modern kitchen setup, and a den with enough space for a sizeable home theatre. Each room has massive windows, and Sam is lucky enough to have grabbed a unit that faces east. Steve would kill for all that natural lighting. He places the ugly succulent on a windowsill, where it can get all the sun it doesn’t need.

Between pointing out the few pieces of furniture Riley _allowed_ Sam to keep from their old place and making his rounds saying hello to people he has apparently met before but can’t remember for the life of him, Steve figures he’s just about fulfilled the legal requirements of Friendship. He mentally schedules himself another half hour of mingling with the people he’s certain he knows, one glass of Prosecco, and as much artichoke and bacon dip as he can get away with before calling it a night. By then, everyone should be too drunk to notice him leaving.

“You’re already thinking about leaving, aren’t you?” Sam says knowingly, elbowing him.

“Noooo,” Steve insists, drawing the word out longer than necessary. “Alright, maybe.”

“Man, at least stay ‘till midnight.”

“Traffic is gonna be _insane_.”

“It’s gonna be insane tonight, no matter what time you’re on the roads. Just wander around and admire the artwork if you want. I hear the artist is a recluse, though.”

“Ha ha,” Steve rolls his eyes as Sam gestures to one of his paintings on the gallery wall in the living room. “This place really is beautiful, though. Think there’ll be any units available when my lease is up in the fall?”

Sam laughs. “Hopefully the one next to mine. Dude’s an asshole.”

“You’ve only been here two months and you already hate your neighbour?”

“Trust me, you’d hate him, too, the smug bastard. He’s awake with music on full blast before sunrise, even on weekends. Blender going, like he’ll die without a protein smoothie at five in the fuckin’ morning. I’ve caught him at the gym a few times and he hogs all the machines. His motorcycle is almost always illegally parked. Some obnoxious, foul-mouthed dude--who I’m guessing is his ex--showed up in the middle of the night banging on _my_ door looking for him, and he didn’t do shit! I know he was awake, I _saw_ him having a smoke on his balcony while some drunk guy was yelling in the hallway! Another time--”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Asshole neighbour. Jesus.” Steve snorts. “Makes me feel better about mine.”

“Shut up, you love Peggy and Angie. Besides, I’d take two sweet old ladies hitting on me and forcing casseroles into me over this guy, any day of the week.” He takes a swig of his beer and waves his hand. “Anyway, enough stalling. You aren’t allowed to shadow me all night. Go catch up with everyone, you know at least fifteen people here.”

“Sam--”

“I _will_ turn the karaoke machine on, and Natasha _will_ make you do every Spice Girls song in the catalogue.”

Steve quickly makes himself scarce.

It’s not a hardship to see his friends, but it’s easier in small doses. Low-key hangouts with a handful of people are his idea of a good time, and his social life would be thriving if everyone just got on the same page with that. Crowds make him feel a little lost. Prolonged music and chatter eventually sets his teeth on edge. He toughs it out as long as he can and gorges himself on air-fried onion rings, as if they’ll soothe his stomach instead of doing the exact opposite.

Less than an hour from midnight and he’s already inching towards the coat closet, but is swiftly intercepted by Clint.

“I just need some air,” Steve explains in what he hopes is a calm and believable tone.

“I’m under strict orders to keep you from leaving,” he says firmly, hip-checking the door shut and setting a tiny, glittery party hat on Steve’s head. “Come to the balcony with me. Plenty of air out there. We’ll have a great view of the fireworks.”

The air turns out to be cigarette-laden, with every smoker in attendance trying to get their last fix of the year before the countdown begins. Steve coughs his way back inside.

“Look,” he says, pleading. “I’m gonna step outside for ten minutes, max. You can even hold my car keys the entire time I’m gone.”

Clint looks at him skeptically, but agrees after Steve gives another pathetic cough. “Only ‘cus you have shitty lungs.”

“And you have a kind heart,” Steve snarks back, hurriedly pulling his pea coat on before he gets waylaid by anyone else.

The front door creaks slightly as it opens. They both wince at the sound. “If you go up to the roof, you won’t have to call Sam to get buzzed back inside,” Clint suggests as Steve slips into the hallway.

“Good idea. Is there a terrace or something?”

“No,” Clint says helpfully, shutting the door in his face.

Steve sighs, heading back to the elevator and hitting the button for the top floor.

It takes a bit of wandering, but he finds a door that leads to a staircase. A staircase that goes up. The sign on the door warns against trespassing, but the broken padlock dangles uselessly from the latch, telling Steve he isn’t the first to get the bright idea of sneaking up there.

Cautiously, he pushes the door open and steps out. The thin layer of snow crunches under his feet and the air is cold against his skin, but it’s quiet. Mercifully so. He takes a deep breath and makes his way across the rooftop, close enough to the edge to see at the lights of the city below, but not enough that a good gust of wind would send him flying.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t bother checking it. He knows there’ll be missed calls and texted threats, but he needs this moment of calm before he can face the mob again.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but he doesn’t much care. Everything is still and calm, and he savours it as long as he can. He takes another deep breath, catching the faint scent of smoke that he didn’t notice before. Are that many people smoking that it would carry all the way up to the roof? Steve takes another step closer to the edge, peering down.

“Pal, it’s not worth it.”

A soft but gravelled voice startles Steve, and for a split-second, he worries he might fall over. “Christ,” he half-shouts, clutching his chest and turning around.

Like something straight out of Steve’s adolescent bad-boy fantasies, a man in a leather jacket and scuffed boots approaches him with a slow, easy swagger. He’s nearly as tall as Steve, with stubble lining his face and a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. His hair is long and dark under his hood, but his eyes are bright and wide.

“I wasn’t going to jump,” Steve clarifies, clearing his throat.

“Hope not. No party’s _that_ bad,” the man says, nodding at the hat Steve forgot he was still wearing.

He flushes pink and takes it off, shoving it deep into his pocket.

“But maybe bad enough that you had to run away and hide, right before the whole point of the party,” the man ventures, the corners of his wide mouth curling up into a smile.

Put so plainly, it sounds awful. The worst part is that it’s true. Steve shrugs.

The man quirks an eyebrow and delicately removes the cigarette from his mouth, turning to blow the smoke downwind. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me just finish up and get out of your way.”

“You can-- I mean-- Well, I don’t live here,” Steve states rather obviously. “You can stay. It’s _your_ roof, I guess.”

“How generous,” he says, amused. After a beat, he takes two steps closer and holds his hand out to shake. “Bucky.”

“Steve.”

Bucky’s hand is calloused, but warm and sturdy. The rest of him appears to be the same way. The supple leather of his jacket looks almost as soft as his hair, and Steve wrestles the physical urge to find out.

“So what are you up to tonight?” Steve withdraws his hand and asks, before he can say anything incriminating like _do you have a partner to get back to?_ or _how are you so rough yet so pretty at the same time?_

“Nothing special. I’ll probably eat leftovers and fall asleep to some shitty movie in an hour or so.”

“God, that sounds like heaven.”

“Sure, if day-old Chinese food and B-List horror are your idea of heaven.”

“Well, it beats hours of small-talk and getting dressed up to sit in someone’s living room all night.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky murmurs, inclining his head and wetting his lips almost indecently. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on Steve’s part. “You should at least try to catch the fireworks, you can get a pretty good view of them from here.”

“So I’ve heard,” Steve says. The sky and water are dark past the glittering city spread out beneath them, but everything will be lit up soon enough. “I should watch them with my friends, but...”

“But that means going back to the party,” Bucky says observantly, filling in the blanks. “You _really_ don’t wanna hang out with them, do you?”

“I love them,” Steve explains quickly. “I just don’t like parties. They’re exhausting, and honestly? Kinda stressful.”

Bucky eyes him up consideringly. “And you came up here to destress?”

“Something like that,” Steve mutters.

“Huh,” Bucky says. “Did it work?”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Not really.”

With a hum, Bucky takes a step closer. “Anything I could do?”

His eyes never leave Steve’s.

“You…” Steve begins, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. “Are you propositioning me?”

“It’s effective stress relief, if you’re interested,” Bucky says with a nonchalant shrug. “If you don’t mind being a little late,” he continues smoothly, allowing Steve a moment to ruminate while he takes another drag of his cigarette.

His lips look so red, so plush around the white stem. The way he tilts his head back exposes the sharp contour of his jaw, the bare skin of his throat.

“You’re crazy,” Steve says distantly. “We just met. On a roof.”

“Would it be less crazy if we met at a bar?”

Steve swallows. “Probably.”

“I have a bar cart in my living room,” Bucky offers, taking another step closer and tossing the cigarette into the snow behind him. “Conveniently close to my bedroom.”

“You’re serious,” Steve says, heart pounding.

“I thought I was crazy.”

Steve exhales shakily. “You are. I ate, like, _so many_ onion rings.”

Bucky closes the distance between them until they’re toe to toe, his breath hot against Steve’s skin. “I have mouthwash in my bathroom.”

They’re on each other before they reach the door, even at the risk of falling down the stairs. Bucky kisses as hard as he grabs, snaking his hands under Steve’s sensible coat and already grinding against him by the time the elevator starts moving. Bucky punches at the buttons to bring them to his floor, and it takes Steve a second to realize Bucky is pushing him through the doors and not trying to lift him up by the hips.

With Bucky’s tongue down his throat, Steve’s higher brain functions kind of fizzle out.

In the blessedly empty hallway, Bucky shoves him against the walls and sucks marks into his neck. Steve stifles his moans in his sleeve and hopes he isn’t any louder than the music thumping through the walls, further down the hall.

“No one’s gonna care,” Bucky murmurs, teeth catching on Steve’s earlobe. The buckles and hardware of his jacket clink as he searches for his keys. “Hear that? My neighbours are throwing some loud ass party.”

“Still,” Steve grumbles, tucking his face into Bucky’s neck.

Belatedly, it occurs to him that should feel badly about not going back to Sam’s.

He should.

But Bucky gets his door open and the guilt is shoved aside to make room for the immediate and all-encompassing need to be naked and horizontal.

They ditch their jackets and shoes somewhere in the front entrance, and make a half-hearted attempt at further undressing when they pile onto the couch. Bucky manages to undo most of Steve’s shirt buttons before pulling it off him, but Steve is making like he’s trying to climb into Bucky’s hoodie while he’s still wearing it.

“Easy,” Bucky chuckles.

Steve isn’t sure whether Bucky’s telling him to take it easy, or calling him easy. He’s too busy trying to get to the solid wall of muscle under Bucky’s t-shirt to care. It feels like an age passes before they finally strip down, but it’s worth it for the way Bucky throws a leg over his waist and _thrusts_.

“Oh, shit _,”_ Steve groans, grabbing at Bucky’s thick thigh and rutting against him.

They aren’t so much kissing as they are panting into each other’s mouths, full of teeth and whispered names. “God, you’re beautiful,” Bucky says roughly, his beard scraping against Steve’s chin and cheeks. “With your huge fucking shoulders and dorky fucking haircut.”

It’s not strictly a compliment, but it isn’t quite an insult either. Steve gives him a firm smack on the ass anyway. That seems to be the right call, because Bucky moans and pushes back into it. “Harder,” he urges. Steve obliges and Bucky leaks wet between them.

“That’s really hot,” Steve confesses, giving his round, supple ass a squeeze.

“You should keep doing that,” he whispers, rolling his hips, “while you fuck me.”

Steve grits his teeth and shivers. “Would if we had more time.”

“Got enough time to get sucked off?”

“Probably not.”

“Can I do it anyway?”

Bucky reaches down and cups Steve’s balls, and Steve makes what he hopes to be his last undignified noise of the year.

It takes a little maneuvering, but they finally situate themselves with Steve sitting upright and Bucky on his knees on the floor, thoroughly and efficiently swallowing him down to the root. Steve doesn’t have much to do but politely hold Bucky’s hair back and ride it out, torn between watching the obscene slide of reddened lips down his shaft and shutting his eyes to have any hope of lasting.

“Close,” Steve grunts in warning as he cradles his jaw, thumbing at Bucky’s cheek to feel the bulge of his own cock.

Bucky pulls off with a wet ‘pop’ and drops himself into Steve’s lap, caging him in with powerful thighs. The sudden heat and weight of him is a shock, but Bucky takes them both in hand and Steve quickly gets with the program. He buries his face in Bucky’s chest, nuzzling at his pecs and getting his teeth around his nipples.

Surprisingly, Bucky spills first, with a growl and a hand fisted in Steve’s hair. As if getting that out of the way suddenly gave him a new sense of purpose, he leans down to attack Steve’s mouth with his own, stroking him with single-minded focus. Bucky tastes like a sloppy mess of saliva and precome and Steve seeks it out like a starving man, biting his lip and thrusting up into Bucky’s hand until the coiling pleasure in the pit of his stomach finally erupts. “Bucky,” Steve moans helplessly, coming in spurts between them.

Bucky jerks him through it, swallowing his whimpers through the aftershocks and smoothing a hand down Steve’s chest. The continued stimulation and gentle caresses keep Steve pulsing in Bucky’s palm, making him writhe and curl his toes. When it gets to be too much, Bucky relents and pulls away, but Steve tugs him back down for another kiss before he can get too far.

It’s sweeter this time, a soft press of swollen lips and tongues. With no urgency or desperation to contend with, Steve holds him steady, slowly mapping out the expanse of Bucky’s muscles with his hands and coaxing him closer.

Something strangely tender blooms in Steve’s chest, warming him through. It was crazy to hook up with a perfect stranger. It must be crazier not to want it to end.

“Fireworks,” Bucky mumbles against his mouth.

Steve feels his cheeks warm. Did he say any of that out loud?

Bucky pulls back and repeats himself, but Steve is understandably distracted by his mussed hair and heavy-lidded gaze.

“Huh?” Steve says faintly.

Bucky rolls his eyes and nods towards the window. Outside, the sky lights up, ringing in the new year. “Hurry up, before the show ends,” he says, dropping one last kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth before getting off him and tossing him his pants.

It’s  a lot colder without him, and Steve supposes he’s still a guest in someone’s home, so he’s reluctant to argue. He stands up to pull them on and ducks his head when Bucky wipes him down with his t-shirt. They get their coats back on, head out the sliding doors to the balcony, and join the rest of the cheering city.

Bucky sidles up to him. “Happy New Year, I guess,” he says, wrapping his arm around Steve’s waist.

Steve winces and checks his watch. “Sam’s gonna kick my ass.”

“Sam?” Bucky asks. “Not Sam Wilson?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Hey, you know--”

_“STEVE?”_

He freezes, then slowly turns his head to look at the balcony next-door.

Sam, wielding a bottle of champagne in a way that looks less celebratory and more like a threat, leans over the railing towards him like he’s ready to launch himself over it. _“_ Are you _KIDDING_ me?”

Mortified, Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“Hey, Wilson,” Bucky shouts, sliding his hand into Steve’s back pocket. “Having a good party?”

Steve elbows him sharply.

“Do you two know each other?” Sam accuses.

“Not really,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky laughs, “We do now!”

Steve hisses at him to shut up, and Bucky just pinches his rear in response.

“Sam, I swear, I really had no idea--”

“James?” Natasha calls out, leaning over the ledge behind Sam and waving a sparkler.

Bucky leans over to see around Steve and waves back. “Long time, no see, Romanov.”

“How do you know her?” Steve frowns.

Bucky snorts. “We used to work together. Whoa, hey, Clint!”

Clint pops up behind Natasha, squinting at the both of them before nodding. “Bucky. Should’ve figured.”

“Roommate from college,” Bucky says quietly, before Steve can even ask. “What’s up, guys?”

“Oh, so _everyone_ knows ‘Bucky’, do they?” Sam mutters, death-glare still drilling into Steve’s very soul. “Are you coming back to your best friend’s housewarming or--”

“Wait, is that Wanda Maximoff?” Bucky yells. “Hey, is your brother there?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam rubs his temples with his free hand, takes a swig of champagne from the bottle, and points a finger at them. “Both of you, get in here. Barnes, we’re gonna have a neighbourly talk about blasting Nicki Minaj at the crack of dawn. Steve, you’re an ass.” He shuffles away and Steve shoves Bucky back inside.

“So, Wilson’s your best friend, huh? I kinda get the feeling that he doesn’t like me very much,” Bucky says mildly.

Steve takes a shaky breath, trying to straighten out his shirt and get himself together. “He might’ve mentioned it.”

“I see,” Bucky says, moving to stand behind Steve and putting his hands on Steve’s hips. _“Should_ he like me?” he asks carefully.

Steve clears his throat. “Well, it’d be nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Dick,” Steve says, grinning as Bucky laughs into the crook of his neck. “Maybe dinner.”

Bucky hums. “In that order?”

“Depends on how hungry you are.”

 _“Starving,”_ Bucky says cheekily, pulling away and reaching for the front door. “I don’t know why, but I’m really craving onion rings.”

**Author's Note:**

> To Trish, for the Stevebucky Gift Exchange 2018. Very sorry for the wait and I really hope you liked it! :D


End file.
